The Book of Truth
by Beboots
Summary: AU. The Elric brothers are in need of money. What better way to acquire it than to publish a book on Alchemy? Shhh, don’t tell the Gate where they got their sources... it’ll want royalties.
1. Prologue Through Act One

Book of Truth 

**Disclaimer: **As per the tradition of writers, I, too, shall emphasize that I, (unfortunately), have absolutely no rights to anything Fullmetal Alchemist related. I do own some beautiful posters and a nifty keychain and an authentic bootleg Chinese pocket watch, but that is the extent of my ownership. Even though I am not Hiromu Arakawa, please enjoy this humble corruption of her work, regardless! m( )m

* * *

Prologue 

Everything had gone to Hell.

Now, Edward was an atheist, and after what he and his brother had just seen his viewpoint hadn't truly changed. If anything, it had just increased his disbelief in God; like an anti-religious experience, one could say.

That – thing – had called itself "God", but Edward was quite sure that wasn't what it was. It had, however, allowed him to see "The Truth". For a price, of course. That, of course, was when it had gotten a little hazy.

He had lost his leg – _his leg._ That, he knew for sure. And, more importantly, his little brother, too, had disappeared into that horrible void. All he could truly remember (besides the terrifying sight of the thing-that-wasn't-their-mother gasping and shuddering on the ground) of the events that immediately followed was all all-encompassing need to have his brother _returned_. Now.

He did remember pleading with the gatekeeper. He had drawn a circle (an image from one of the half-buried new not-his-memories obtained from inside The Truth) in his blood on the dead not-mother. Approaching the body was the first of several difficult things that he was to do that evening. It was only complicated by the fact that _his leg was gone_. He had returned the not-mother to the thing that called itself God, who had frowned in the way that a vegetable seller does when having to give up fresh fruit in exchange for returned rotten carrots they had tricked you into buying earlier. There was another toll – _interest, you see, my dear alchemist_ – it had said with its' wide grin. The not-mother had disappeared when Edward had blinked, and the right arm of the self-called God had solidified.

And he was back on the bloodstained basement floor, and Al was screaming and Al's legs, too – _bothofthemohGod _– were gone and his arm, too, his arm, and all he wanted to do was throw up so he did.

Granny Pinako had always said if they were ever in trouble, they had to come over to their house, and something, the big-brother Edward in Ed's mind calmed. They had a phone. He could get help. It was in the kitchen though, and they were in the basement.

Leaving Al bleeding, crying (Ed sympathized, he wanted to cry too, cry and scream and —) down there and dragging himself upstairs was the hardest thing he'd ever had to do. Somehow, however, he pushed down the pain and he managed to slowly pull himself up the stairs (the ones that they'd bounced down so happily just – was it only an hour ago? – a little while before.) The kitchen was close. He couldn't hear Al's pained screaming anymore. Ed had to hurry. He hauled his heavily bleeding self (he had done nothing to where his arm should have been, and the makeshift bandages of his leg-stump had bled through somewhere between the bottom of the staircase and the top) onto the cold linoleum of the darkened kitchen. He tugged desperately on the black telephone wire with his remaining arm. The entire phone clattered to the ground beside him and the plastic receiver bounced around on the floor beside his head.

Never had he been so glad to hear the monotonous dial tone. He dialed the familiar number (difficult to work the rotary dial, his red fingers kept slipping). He listened to thirteen rings (he counted, fuzzily), as he bled on the floor.

Finally, Granny Pinako's sleep-blurred voice answered. "Rockbell automail services. Now what was so important it couldn't wait until morning?"

He felt like crying.

"Granny," Ed whispered hoarsely. "We need help."

"Edward? Is that you?" Pinako's voice was sharp, but concerned. "What's wrong?"

_What was wrong?_ Ed swallowed the taste of copper in his mouth, feeling lightheaded. "Please, we need help. Please, Al's bleeding." _I'm bleeding._ "He's in the basement. Help."

He didn't really hear Pinako's response. He felt tired. He hurt, but it was a far-away hurt. Soon enough, he heard the soothing ring tone once more, but he was long unconscious by the time the Rockbells arrived. He didn't even wake up when the kitchen lights snapped on and Winry saw the thick blood trail. Her screams went unheard.

**Prologue: End**

Act One 

It was going to cost a lot. They needed three metal legs, and an arm. Even though Granny Pinako said that they were family, and they didn't need to pay (and they were supposed to be good boys and were always supposed to listen to what Granny Pinako said), the Elric brothers knew that it just wouldn't be fair. They were already depleting the Rockbell stock of painkillers, after all.

It was nighttime, and the room was dark. The brothers were lying on two small beds (small beds for small children), side-by-side, in a room they hadn't been allowed in before in the Rockbell household ("_These are only for patients_" Granny had said). They were talking. In slurred voices (due to the painkillers, but they hadn't ingested enough drugs to counter their shared insomnia) they whispered plans.

What was unspoken, however, was the mutual hope that this plan would turn out better than their last one.

After many hours of hushed discussion, it was decided. Al would write it (his handwriting hadn't suffered much; he still had his writing hand). They would publish some of the vast mental alchemical libraries of knowledge that had been jammed and squeezed into their minds like a foot being forced into a shoe just a size too small.

Ed had not-quite memories full of tiny anatomical structures present in all living beings, of a fetus's first thoughts, of seven-angled circles, of transmuted souls, and of circleless transmutations.

Al, too, had not-memories; some of the latter of Ed's overlapped with his. The younger knew the chemical fashion in which flowers bloomed, of how ancient giant lizards regulated body heat, of the reasoning behind the First Bird's flight, of circles within circles within circles… And these were just a few of the ones they could put into words. Some of the not-memories were more difficult to understand, harder to decipher aloud than others, as they were processed in long-dead languages. Very little of what they had both seen had been present in their fathers' notes, even less they remembered from Teacher. The Truth was old, older than their father, older than Teacher, and certainly older than them.

It gave them something to focus on, other than pain and panic.

* * *

Gracia Hughes was getting disillusioned with her publishing job. It had been her dream as a child to write books, until she'd found out that she had nothing to write about. Anything she attempted to pin down in writing fluttered away, out of her mind like escaping butterflies.

She had finally decided she wasn't going to be a slave to the unresponsive muses and had chosen to help others achieve their dream of writing. She had borrowed some money from her father and purchased a giant printing press. It had all been so grand, when she was young.

Now she was married to a loving husband, a decade older, and all she was getting for commissions were badly written bodice-rippers. If she read one more tale of passion of Vanessa-Georgette and her peak-of-masculinity lover Sir Roberto Biggerstaff, with their "throes of violently passionate passion" she was going to sell off her press for scrap metal. She had been planning on having a child anyway, and it probably wouldn't do to change their diapers with ink-stained hands…

It was then that the manuscript arrived in the post. It was neither particularly long, nor particularly short, being just about two hundred and fifty pages long. The entire thing was hand-written, printed in neat, round letters, reminding her of her handwriting back in grade three (when she had tried, in vain, to write down her first novel – _The Adventures of Mrs.Tiddles, the Friendly Neighborhood Supercat_, if she recalled correctly).

The cover letter was addressed politely to a "Mr/Mrs. Publisher", and went on to say that "we, two orphan brothers", need money for medical treatment and had written a book to sell. It was signed, "Sincerely, Alphonse Elric and Edward Elric". The latter name was written in shakier, more childish writing.

Her heart softening, Gracia flipped to the first page. It had a date; October 11th, 1910. "_Mum died today. Brother says we won't forget her."_ She read aloud, slowly.

Gracia turned to the next page. It was dated over a year later; November 13th, 1911. "_Big brother and I left Dublith today on the 10:15 train to East City. With some of the money Teacher gave us, we bought some delicious sticky rolls from the vendor on the platform. Brother ate two of his before the train had even started moving, even though I'd told him they were supposed to be our lunch too. Brother never listens to me! He said that they had pork and vegetable filling on the inside, though, and they taste best hot. I suppose he would know, because he'd already finished his. I'm saving mine for lunch, but he'll probably pinch one of mine before then. I'm going to try to distract him with a game of cards. I hope he doesn't cheat this time, he always cheats at cards."_

It was a travelogue, Gracia realized, and she turned to the third entry.

November 14th, 1911 "_We stopped in a dusty town called Xenotime today. The inn had some impressive cutout designs for gold siding on their dining room wall, but the innkeeper said that they didn't have any gold anymore. Brother seemed to like the innkeeper, but I think it was only because he gave us free pie for dessert. I've never had lemon pie before. I thought that it would be more sour, like lemonade with no sugar, but they put some whipped cream in as well and it tastes very good. Brother didn't believe me when I said that the cream was made from milk. He said it tasted too good to have been excreted from a cow."_ Gracia smiled. Now this was something that people should read; just the thing to take one's mind off of the recent civil war in the east! It also was, apparently, to support a pair of orphans. She would have to meet these young authors. She'd take Maes along, too. Her husband needed some vacation time off work, anyway.

Act One: End

* * *

**Author's Note: **Well, I've finally gotten off my butt to actually write something besides reviews! XD I love reading fanfiction and writing long reviews – especially for well-written A/Us and crossovers (so if anybody has any recommendations… ;) ). So, I figure it's probably about time that I write my own (decent, I hope) Alternate Universe to add to the mix for others to enjoy!

I've also written the first four chapters of a Harry Potter/Fullmetal Alchemist crossover, but I've gotten seriously stuck so it probably won't be posted for a while, until I get out of my writing rut.

Just as an aside, "Biggerstaff" is, scarily enough, an actual surname. :P Oh, er, and I hope you enjoyed the fic so far:D


	2. Act Two Through Act Three

**Act Two**

The journey by train to the little town of Risembool from Central took several days. After finally convincing Maes to take a week or two off work, a month after getting the manuscript, Gracia was finally going to meet the boys who had written her latest commission. It was very exciting – made even more so because Maes had brought his camera. It kept her on her toes. Gracia loved her husband, she really did, but if he took one more picture of her while she was blowing her nose, or reading her book, or yawning, or what have you, she was going to throttle him. She wasn't that photogenic, although Maes passionately professed that it was the opposite whenever she voiced the thought (usually in a warning tone).

Gracia had sent the Elric brothers a letter in reply, saying that she would very much like to print their book, and would like to visit them. She hadn't yet received a reply, but she was sure that if it was a problem, they would simply just have to impose on whatever hotel or inn the town offered.

Now standing on the platform with her husband, looking out at the scenic (but very empty) countryside, she was now wondering at her choice. If the boys didn't have a proper house, it looked like she and Maes would require a tent.

At least they now knew where to look for the Elrics. The old police officer hanging about the ticket office was very good at giving directions. He must not get to do much else around here, she supposed. Such a peaceful village (if one could call such a small group – not even a cluster – of farms, a village) must not have much crime.

Still optimistic, the Hughes couple set off on the only (dirt paved) road leading away from the train station. She had had Maes carry their two suitcases. With his hands full, he couldn't use his camera, unless, of course, he got creative with his mouth.

After nearly half an hour of walking along the winding dirt road, they ran across their first real landmark; "Rockbell Automail". The helpful officer had told them that the young boys often played about this immediate area.

As they approached, a black and white dog, lying on the porch, raised its' head and gave a few deep barks in greeting. Before the two even reached the porch, the door opened and a young blonde girl peeked out.

"Ah, good afternoon, miss." That was Maes, crouching down to the child's eye level. He always has such a way with children, Gracia reflected fondly. "We're looking for the Elric brothers. Are they here?"

The girl looked between the two. "You're not soldiers come to take them away, right? You don't look like soldiers." She looked directly at Gracia when she said this.

"No, I'm not a soldier," Gracia said with a smile. She didn't need to mention Maes' profession. "And I promise we haven't come to take the boys away, either."

"Oh, that's good." The blonde said. She looked very tired, Gracia noted with motherly concern. "They shouldn't be leaving for a while, though."

"Can we see them?" Maes asked. Even he was curious about the children that had gotten his wife so excited.

"I don't know—I don't think you should." The girl said quietly. "Al's not doing very well today."

"Please, we've come from Central to see them." Gracia said, letting her concern tinge her voice. Their cover letter had said something about medical bills, she recalled.

"From Central? Why?" The girl asked, suspicious.

Gracia opened her suitcase and rummaged around for the thick bunch of papers. "The boys sent me a manuscript. I would like to publish it, but I want to speak to them first."

"You're a publisher?" The little girls eyes widened. "I thought – well, Granny posted a package for them ages ago, but – those sneaks! I thought they were joking when they said they were writing a book!" She frowned in childish indignation.

"Winry, who are you keeping out there on the porch?" An old and raspy voice said from within the house.

The girl was suddenly excited, and spun in the doorway to speak to the newcomer. "They're publishers, Granny! From Central!"

"Publishers?" The door opened further and an extremely short old woman stepped out onto the porch. She was wearing an apron that, disturbingly enough, looked like it was stained with a few fresh red spots of blood. She eyed the Central couple up and down critically. She nodded to herself; apparently they passed inspection. "I am Pinako Rockbell. This is my granddaughter, Winry."

Taking this as her cue to introduce herself, Gracia spoke up. "I am Gracia Hughes. This is my husband, Maes. I'm pleased to meet you." She smiled politely.

The elder Rockbell nodded once again. "Well, come in, come in. I suppose you want to see the boys." She turned to her granddaughter as they entered the front hall. "Winry, why don't you go take Den for a walk?"

The girl harrumphed in the way that children do when they know that they're being distracted while adults did adult-things, but went back outside to do as she was told. Once the door had slammed shut, Pinako ushered them into the kitchen after taking their suitcases and placing them by the stairs.

"Tea?" The woman asked gruffly once the Hughes were seated at the small kitchen table. They nodded in acquiescence; it had been a long walk. Pinako put the kettle on. Sitting on the stovetop were several other pots, simmering. "How much did the boys tell you in their letter? I assume they sent a letter along with that pack of paper?" She finally asked.

Gracia nodded. "It said that they were orphans –"

"True enough," Pinako broke in. When the younger woman paused after the interruption, she frowned and said, impatiently, "Well, go on." Something about the older woman's attitude brooked no argument. Her age ensured that she didn't even come across as too rude.

"Yes, well, they said that they wrote the book to pay for medical bills." She had a sinking suspicion as to what those bills were for now, considering what the apparent profession of Pinako Rockbell was, but she asked anyway. "Is it… serious?"

The kettle began to whistle just then. Pinako pursed her lips, and swiftly removed it from the heat. "They… were crippled. In an accident," she said vaguely, her eyes dark, as she poured the water over the teabags and set the mugs before the couple, before pulling up a chair for herself. "You'll see when you go in there. It could be worse," she said to the slightly horrified looks she was getting. "At least I have something to work with."

The three of them sat, contemplating this statement. The tea warmed Gracia's stomach but did very little to curb the sudden cold burst to her heart. From the almost carefree nature of the writing, the childish diction, she hadn't realized that – well, she shouldn't jump to conclusions. She could be imagining it much worse than it was in reality.

It was worrisome, though to glance over at Maes and to find the twinkle in his eyes gone. He was unusually silent, too. She wondered if he was remembering children of Ishbal; he never really spoke of what he had seen to her, but it had been war, after all.

Feeling the need to break the silence, Gracia spoke. "Could we meet Alphonse and Edward?"

Pinako frowned from behind her cup of tea. "Alphonse just had a session of surgery today. But Edward was fairly lucid this morning." She drained the last of her drink, then hopped off her chair (she really was a shrunken, short old lady). "It's about time I got something in that stomach of his, anyway." The automail surgeon ladled out some soup from one of the simmering pots into a shallow bowl.

"Here," she shoved it into Maes' hands. "You can carry this."

The older woman led them down the main hallway towards the back of the house, until they came to a normal-looking rough wooden door.

Pinako pushed it open.

**Act Two: End**

Act Three 

Gracia had felt, after reading over two hundred pages in the boys' own handwriting, that she knew them fairly well. She understood that Edward, the elder, impulsive one, enjoyed sparring with his brother (even though he lost most of the time), but hated milk, liars and anybody who even implied that he was short. Alphonse, however, was very insightful, and was always holding his brother in check; he was naïve, but sometimes had startling amounts of cynicism. He liked analyzing people's motivations, but didn't always like what he found out.

Now, peeking into the room, looking down upon two feverish young children – _crippled_ children, crippled by an event that she knew nothing about… She realized she really knew next to nothing about them, themselves. Why, she didn't even know how their parents had died!

Only one was awake; he was sitting up (well, technically propped up by pillows), and was reading a heavy hardcover book, which was lying in his lap. The reason for the books' position became obvious upon observing that he only had one arm. One had to have two to hold a book and turn pages after all. The shape of the sheets covering the lower half of his body did nothing to hide the fact that he was missing a leg as well. Wires trailed from stands beside both beds to the children. Gracia tried not to think of where they attached or what they were for.

The second bed in the room was pushed right up against the one the blonder boy was sitting in. That bed held a darker haired boy, asleep and even more feverish than the other. This child gave the appearance of being quite short, but only because the majority of both legs were missing. The one who was awake was resting his remaining hand on the other's right, when he wasn't turning the pages of his book.

The blond boy looked up from the tome as the door opened (it didn't creak; the hinges were well-oiled). "Who are you?" He asked as the three adults entered. His voice was tired, but curious.

"This is Gracia and Maes Hughes." Pinako replied, approaching the bed, flipping the sheets off his lower body and beginning to check over the bandages of the leg stump in a professional manner.

"Yo!" Her husband raised a hand and attempted a smile.

"My name's Edward," he said, taking a sharp intake of breath as Pinako gave his leg a prod. "This is Alphonse." Ed looked over to his brother.

"Pleased to meet you," Gracia replied, and she found that as she said it, it was true. She sat down in the chair placed beside his bed. Her husband placed the soup bowl he'd been manhandled into carrying on the bedside table and came to stand beside her. "I read the book that you sent me, and I came here to let you know that I want to publish it."

Edward blinked. It was obvious he'd been wondering what they were here for, but it seemed he hadn't expected that answer. Then her statement caught up with him. He positively beamed.

"You want to publish it? Really?"

"Yes," Gracia replied. "It's one of the most refreshing books I've had the pleasure of being sent for many years. I particularly enjoyed the chapter set in Liore –" and she was off, quickly engaged in conversation regarding the book to the young boy. The fastest way to an author's heart was to compliment their work; for Gracia, this took no urging.

For a while, it seemed they could both forget his crippled state, especially after the automail surgeon pronounced Ed well enough to eat if he wanted and went on to examine Alphonse's condition. Gracia found him to be an extremely eloquent twelve-year old – which wasn't truly surprising, considering he and his little brother had co-written an entire book.

They soon fell to discussing cover-design options, and Ed offered to let her use some old photographs of theirs. "We'll have to ask Al first, though," he insisted.

It was then that Pinako interrupted Edward, saying quite firmly that he should try to ingest at least a little bit of his soup before it was completely stone cold. He did so.

Really, what happened next shouldn't have been too much of a shock. But, as had been previously stated, it was very difficult to remember that the child was ill when he was talking with her so animatedly.

Edward put his spoon down. The only further warning that Gracia had was the slightly green tinge to his cheeks and the overall ashen look to his face. Pinako, however, was quicker on the uptake (probably through practice, unfortunately), and quickly shoved a metal bowl into the boy's lap as the contents of his stomach were disgorged.

The retching sound he made caused her own stomach to have sympathetic pangs. She did have the good sense, however, to quickly pull back Edward's long bangs before they dripped into the soiled bowl.

The horrendous-sounded dry heaves soon died down, and after a quick nod, eyes still tight shut, from Edward, Pinako whisked the bowl away, presumably to be rinsed out. The smell would only encourage the boy's nausea.

"Are you … all right?" Asked Gracia, hesitantly, feeling a flash of frustration with herself for asking the obvious question. Of course he wasn't all right. He was probably asked that vague question forty times a day, here. But what else could one ask? Would it be more proper to just remain silent?

His eyes still shut, Edward nodded once again. "I'm fine." Her husband, more pragmatically, handed the child a damp cloth to wipe his mouth.

After carefully cleaning off his face with his one remaining hand, Edward finally opened his eyes and looked at Gracia, still seated by his side, and took a shaky breath. "Sorry. You probably didn't want to see that." Amidst the Hughes' protestations that no, it wasn't his fault, he said, awkwardly, "But it is my fault, you see. It is."

And no further proclamations from the adults in the room could convince him otherwise – quite the reverse, in fact.

They found that, to their horror, the boy was soon crying, and was clutching convulsively again for his younger brother's hand. "You don't understand!" Edward gasped, a little bit hysterically. "It's all my fault. It was my idea, I – Al – I – my fault!" With another shuddering gasp, he finally just buried his head against his one remaining knee, hiding his face.

Awkwardly, Gracia placed a motherly hand on shaking shoulders. "Edward."

Her husband hovered in the background.

"Edward," she repeated, not quite in the high-pitched parent-ese tone, but one definitely recognized, at least subconsciously, by children everywhere as that of a mother. And this boy was still a child.

When calmed down, she would talk to Edward about publishing rights, title copyrights, royalties, and the like. She would tell him in detail, so he could tell his brother. She would leave her phone number, in case they had questions. Alphonse seemed like the type to ask a lot of questions.

Later, anyway. Later.

Right now, he wasn't another one of her prospective authors; he was just a guilt-ridden, pain-filled child. Right now he didn't need such talk. Right now, he needed a mother. 'Isn't it odd', she thought to herself, 'That I can slip into this role so easily?' She wasn't a mother herself, not yet. But maternal instinct – or perhaps it was just human compassion – meant she didn't hesitate. Gracia leant over and gave the child a much-needed hug.

'Later,' she thought, and held him while he cried.

Act Three: End 


	3. Act Four Through Five

**Act Four**

It had been impulse that had caused him to read the book. Maes had been telling him that he ought to read things other than military reports, nagged him that he ought to spend less time at HQ, get out some more, and had dragged him down to his wife's small printing shop to collect her so they could all have dinner together.

That was when he had seen it.

The book had been one of many, sitting, innocuously, on top of a stack of identical copies. Roy had picked it up (just out of idle curiosity, of course, nothing more) while waiting for Gracia to finish washing the ink off of her hands. The cover was simple enough; a photograph, two young boys, of perhaps five years of age, enthusiastically holding up a pair of roughly transmuted toys (Dogs? Or horses, perhaps? It was difficult to tell.) to the one who had taken the picture. The title – _The Book of Truth_ – was rather bombastic considering it's apparent contents. A travelogue, eh? Without much interest, Roy flipped to the first page.

He was still reading when Maes and Gracia returned, and he was only broken out of his literary stupor after his friend had called his name for the third time.

"What do you think of it?" Asked Maes, as he smiled in his infuriatingly contagious way.

Roy grunted, shrugged, and commented on something about the author's descriptions of East City – they couldn't have visited the city if they were describing "cobblestone streets". East City was much more modern now, and had paved roadways, had had them for decades. But as soon as he said it, something clicked in his mind.

The article had been speaking of the "six-sided marble water fountain" in the city's centre – which was another thing Roy couldn't recall about the settlement – which made him recall the latest report he'd been reading. It had been a biannual research report of one Shou Tucker, the Sewing Life Alchemist. It had mentioned the possibility of using an extra point, a different angle of star to stabilize the transmutation circle, and he had been experimenting with different types of chalk compositions to see if it made any difference in his research.

In a moment, it sank in. He swiftly reopened the book, and skimmed the entry again.

_December 16th, 1911_

_'We arrived early this morning in East City today. I had to remind Nii-san to thank the nice chicken farmer for the ride before we hopped off his cart – Nii-san is very rude sometimes. The cobblestone streets all branch towards the centre of the city, and at every street corner there are new electric lamps to light the streets at night. Nii-san said he wished that Resembool had them, but I think the gas lamps are fine. We don't have many houses anyway. We followed the streets and saw a beautiful water fountain in the central square, downtown. There were lots of pigeons about, and people were feeding them bits of bread. A nice old lady gave us some breadcrumbs and we fed the birds too. It was fun – some came less than two feet away from my legs! Brother got bored, though, and went to look at the fountain. It was made of a really pretty grey and white swirly marble, and was shaped like a hexagram. The angles of the stone made the light reflect in odd ways in the water, but it was really quite pretty. I wish we owned a camera.'_

Roy did some rapid calculations. Hexagram, centered in the centre of a circle, made of stone – granite was prevalent in the East region, components of bread were … grain, yeast, flour… Marble was representative of…. purity, but if it was grey as well, that indicated a heterogeneous mixture… water was obvious, but six-angled star? Shit, he needed a conversion table…

"Roy?" Maes' one-word inquiry briefly ricocheted his mind back to the present.

Without waiting for his friend to continue, Roy demanded, "Do you know what this is?" His tone contained less anger than it did excitement.

"What this is?" Maes repeated, in question format. "It's a book, Roy."

"Yes, but who wrote it?" Roy asked impatiently, clutching his copy in one hand and waving it between them, as if it would jog the married man's memory by its' mere presence.

"Er, a pair of brothers. Very cute, they're on the cover. Why?" It was spoken in an almost condescending tone. "What's so interesting?"

"Two boys?" The alchemist looked at the cover critically. "They can't have. Unless this photograph is really old."

"I know, we both thought it was quite amazing of them to have committed to write a whole book." Gracia and Maes shared a smile unique to parents proud of their offspring. One would think from their tone that she had birthed them herself.

"No, I mean they can't have." The dark-haired man insisted. "This – I – it's in code, Maes. Alchemic code. I didn't realize until just now."

"What?"

"Alchemic code." He repeated, slowly. "I'll need some of my notes as reference, but I'm fairly certain that this passage describes an improved six-angled circle for water condensation and purification. I wouldn't be surprised if many of the other entries were similarly coded."

"Roy, a pair of kids wrote this." Hughes said, with a slight laugh.

The soldier shook his head irritably and regretted, not for the first time, that his friend had never taken an interest in the Old Art. He began to pace, speaking more quickly. "Did they say they knew anything about alchemy? Who taught them? Did they take it from books, or –"

"Are you sure you're not reading too much into it?" Gracia asked kindly. "If alchemy has been on your mind all day, don't you think it's possible that –"

"No, no." Roy shook his head. "It's there, I swear."

And now he was getting those looks. Mustang was a scientist in a growing field, though. He was used to those looks. He could handle them.

"Look," Mustang began. He had to explain everything to them, slowly. He had to keep reminding himself that just because it was second nature for him to know it, didn't mean it was second nature to them. It would be like handing them a book of classical Xingian poetry and expecting them to be able to thumb through and discuss the imagery and diction…in classical Xingian. It was a completely different language. "There's a tendency for most alchemists to write their research in a way that can't be immediately recognized for what it is. You know, hidden as recipe books and such. It's a throwback from the times when alchemy was thought as evil and unnatural – the witch hunts only became illegal in the last century, you know." He paused. "It also has the dual advantage of hiding your breakthroughs from those who might steal them and profit from them themselves.

"But as you can imagine, there have been hundreds, perhaps thousands of alchemists who've written their research down. There are only so many metaphors one can use to describe "gold", and even when they're within another metaphor, if you're looking for it, clues like 'the sun', or 'the blonde', or 'the daffodil' aren't too terribly hard to pick out. If you're familiar with several different codes, and if the one you're reading is simple, it's just like reading Pig Latin. You have to think about it, of course, but it's not that difficult to spot the pattern." Roy looked down at the opened book in his hands with a scientist's calculating gaze. "And this one's not exactly simple, but it is recognizable. I'd have to spend a bit of time with it."

And again he raised his head to face the disbelieving looks from his distinctly non-alchemist friends. There was a long, tense pause.

"Well, why don't we go out for dinner, Roy?" Asked Gracia finally with a soft smile. She placed her not-quite-inkless hands on his and gently closed the book. "That Cretan restaurant down the way sound good?"

Roy huffed for a moment, but finally acquiesced.

"Fine. I'm getting hungry."

**End Act Four**

**

* * *

****Act Five**

It didn't take long for others to hear about the book with the "secret hidden alchemy".

The public loves a good mystery, and this one was available at your local bookstore all for the low, low price of eight hundred and forty-five cenz. The population of non-alchemists always had an interest in alchemy, but that wasn't the only reason it became a rousing success. Part of the great mystery was the fact that no one knew of the true identity of its author (or authors, as the publisher claimed). The publisher refused to give any information regarding the "authors" out, citing privacy reasons. This didn't deter the curious in any way.

The names of those who had written it weren't printed in the book, and only a foolish person would actually believe that the "Alphonse and Edward" of the book itself were anything but fictional characters created for the purpose of the code. It was glaringly obvious, many said, that they were simply representations of the sun (Edward, the elder, the bright, blond, passionate one), and the moon (Alphonse, the younger, paler one who followed his elder sibling). If one were to read through the passages, it was an unmistakable fact that the ones in which there were more references to the speaker (the moon) were transmutations to be done at night or in darkness, and those in which there were more references to the brother were to be done in full daylight and _my goodness if you can't even figure that out on your own how can you call yourself a scholar?!_

The author's identity was a mystery (apparently only the publisher and her husband knew, and they weren't saying anything). Of course, many conspiracy theories abounded as to their identity – the most popular and persistent of which was that it was a Liorian woman who wrote anonymously so she wouldn't be persecuted by her religious peers.

There had been a brief flurry of interest in a pair of brothers in Xenotime, the youngest of which in particular looked remarkably similar to one of the models in the photograph on the cover. However, it was soon found out that the only alchemy that those Tringham kids knew were related to botany, and couldn't answer even the basest questions about what was contained in the Book of Truth.

So the search continued. As the months passed, more and more "facts" regarding the hidden alchemical formulae "surfaced". Guidebooks were published, without the approval, consent, or even knowledge of the original publisher of the Book of Truth. This later resulted in serious torts in which beginner alchemists attempted to use the circles contained in these guides, only to have them backfire, destroying both property and the occasional pair of eyebrows, and then those same "alchemists" trying to figure out who to sue.

Scholarly interest and challenge: that was another reason why the copies of The Book of Truth sold so quickly. It had been a slow year in the controversial writings department, and the literary critics had been getting restless. And here was a perfect book they could prey upon; here was the opportunity to lambaste. We must do it to "protect the children" – anybody could just pick up a book and use the information contained within against _our_ kids…. From the scathing remarks of the newspapers, one would think that the book contained instructions for summoning infant-eating demons.

But the commentary wasn't simply limited to non-alchemists; the purists of alchemy praised the book. The dead mother, they said, represented the old traditional views of alchemy being defiled by modern alchemists, those who sought to get around Equivalent Exchange! The missing father clearly continues the metaphor, embodying the traditional values that have "left" – or he could even represent modern alchemists themselves, having killed the "mother" (traditional alchemy) through heartbreak, or neglect. Mentions of the man in the text also had the dual use of symbolizing a destabilizing element to be careful of in the equation that that particular entry depicted.

They should praise the book it's innovative way of raising issues!

Alchemical circles began using terms and phrases connected to the book, such as "reviving mother", a new battle cry for traditional alchemists. The scientific journals were afire with differing opinions and interpretations, and counter-opinions and counter-interpretations of the text, and only one thing was known for sure: the author had better come out and explain some of the more contested passages or there would definitely be bloodshed.

Or at least, more copious amounts of ink wasted.

* * *

A/N: why hallo there! Have you all enjoyed the chapters thus far? Please leave a review and tell me how I'm doing! Also, if you haven't already, please check out m other fiction - including a Harry Potter/FMA crossover which I plan on updating fairly soon after I post this chapter, before I go on vacation. :) Praise will only flatter me into updating more quickly! 


	4. Act Six Through Seven

(And I swear that I really _am_ working on "Alchemy's Child"!)

**Act Six

* * *

**

Just as it had been only chance that had led Roy Mustang to first reading the Book of Truth, naturally it was also by chance that he should meet its' authors for the first time. Of course, he didn't immediately recognize them for who they were.

He had been on one of his "municipal inspections". It was _not_ a date, as Breda said; he had escorted a helpless young woman home, and if she happened to have tickets to the theatre and no-one to go with, and happened to give him one out of gratitude – for helping her home, you see – then there wasn't anything wrong with accepting them and seeing the play – no sense in waste, you see – she had no-one else, and she had arrived at home safely, at least.

Yes, indeed: another good deed done in the day of one Roy Mustang.

The only thing that even vaguely put a damper on his evening – literally – was the horrendous weather. As they said, it was "raining cats and dogs." Or, as was more likely the case, drowning them. Luckily, _this_ dog had remembered to bring his military-issued – but stylish – black umbrella.

"Excuse me, sir." Said a voice, politely, quiet over the continuous sound of the rain. Roy had just been on his way home himself, seeing how it was several hours past dark, and so he was surprised to turn and see two children. He frowned. It was rather late for kids that young to be out on the streets of Central, especially in this weather. As a city with a prominent military base, it was safer than many in Amestris, but it was still a large city. There had been reports of a serial killer that worked at night.

But once he turned around, he disapprovingly noted that these children, huddling under a scraggly, shared umbrella, were _very _young. Ten years old at the eldest; and dragging suitcases as well. One had a cane, and was not so discretely leaning – heavily – on it. So, children, _crippled_ children, traveling alone, in a big city, at night, in heavy rain, with a serial killer running around.

Not a good combination.

At least the serial killer had only gone for grown women – so far. He wasn't about to bet anyone's lives on it.

"Sir," the boy continued – dark blonde, likely the elder of the two. They looked just alike enough for their relation to show. They were probably brothers, or even sisters – the other had long hair and a rather pretty face. One could never tell with certain preteens. The lack of light and the fact that they were soaking wet (what a shameful thing to call an umbrella) wasn't helping. "We're new to Central, and we're sort of lost. Could you help us?" He began unfolding a map, looking hopeful.

Why not? They looked very tired, soaked, and not a bit desperate. Let it never be said that Roy Mustang passed helpless people by.

"We don't need his help, Al," the other protested. "We're just fine! We can find it on our own!" Okay, he was definitely male, with that kind of voice, and attitude.

"You've been saying that for the last _three_ hours, Nii-san!" The other countered, still unfolding their map, hopping from beneath their umbrella to Roy's.

"Visiting relatives?" Roy asked as he took one end of the map.

"Not really," was the reply. "Just friends. But we've never been here before, so the address is kind of useless."

Roy nodded in agreement. The city's streets were the furthest things from a grid-system in which a city could get, short of an all-out jumble. The city itself, as one could see on any map, was star-shaped, with the military headquarters in the direct center. The sides of the star were the largest and widest streets in the city, used for military parades and as a way to deploy troops from the city with quick ease. Popular rumor had it based on an alchemical formula – but of course no one could activate a circle _that_ large.

Anything along the sides of the star or within them was easy to locate (East Point North, North Point West, etc. gave the general location), but anything outside of that was fair game for the obscure name free-for-all.

"What was the address?" Roy asked.

"Ah –" The taller one fumbled in the pockets of his long red coat and withdrew a crumpled piece of paper, which he consulted before continuing: "Berto – Borrow? Borough? I hope I'm saying that right…"

Roy nodded – fairly simple to find. It was a larger street fairly far from the "main star" portion of the city, and had been named after one of the many small towns Central City had grown around. In fact, Maes lived on that street.

Luckily, it wasn't too far off, so Mustang didn't feel too bad about just giving directions and walking away, especially after cautioning them about the serial killer. Honestly, a man tries to do a good deed, gives them directions, gives them warnings, and the kid just blew up at him!

"_Who's so short and petite that even a psychopath can't tell he's not a woman_?!"

**End Act Six**

**Inter-act:** Okay, so here you can see what one might call a "deleted scene". I was originally going to write the above scene, not in the rain, but with Roy slightly drunk (to make the fact that he didn't recognize the Elrics from the cover of their book slightly more plausible). I even had him come to a realization that perhaps _they _were the serial killer (AKA Barry the Chopper), as Roy catches a glimpse of metal up Ed's sleeve (automail, of course). But then I realized I couldn't write Roy drunk… and having him think that two children were serial killers was a bit of a stretch... and that rain would be so much easier an excuse. But… I really, really liked this paragraph. So… here it is! An alternate universe scene from an alternate universe fanfiction based upon an anime based in an alternate universe! XD

* * *

Wait a minute… that address had sounded so familiar… Why was that? After a moment, he realized. _Hughes_. _That glint of metal._ _Serial killer.__ Shit._ In his not-quite sober state of mind, this was a perfectly logical conclusion. Without a moment's hesitation, he spun around, his coattails flaring dramatically in his wake, and ran towards his oldest friend's house… not in a straight line, mind you, but the intent was there.

* * *

Further author's notes for Act Six: My description of Central City is based on several things. The first is a few shots from the anime of the military headquarters that actually do show that there's a star-shape to the streets. My little explanation – that the sides of the star are large streets used for deploying troops/military parades is based upon Paris – the Champs-Élyséss (I've been there, although I didn't see a parade, but it was so huge it was certainly possible). Those streets are so large that occupying and liberating forces in Paris in the Second World War could drive tanks down them! Anyway, continuing onwards...

* * *

**Act Seven**

"Roy!" The door was thrown open by an enthusiastic Hughes. The sound of several dozen voices chattering within filtered out onto the street. "Good you could make it!"

"Yes, well…" Mustang said modestly, adjusting the collar his civilian (for once) dress outfit. "I couldn't well leave my best friend all without male company at his wife's baby shower."

"Oh, no, I'm not completely without men, here," Hughes protested as they entered. "There are a few kicking around." And indeed there were a few men sulking about in the fringes of the rooms, as if they were afraid pregnancy was something that they could catch. Roy nodded to Havoc, slouching in a corner, chewing on an unlit cigarette, who nodded back. He was likely here with his latest girlfriend.

The rest of the crowd was composed of women. All were either encircling Gracia, cooing, politely asking to touch her swelling belly, and so forth, or were otherwise engaged doing tasks about the house (because when one became that pregnant, one was automatically helpless in the presence of others). Notably, they were organizing the lunch buffet table and a tottering pile of wrapped gifts on a side table.

Roy, as a close friend of her husband, was given the right to squeeze through the crowd of pre-baby admirers for a personal greeting. He presented his wrapped gift, and it was immediately whisked away to the gift table by one of the surrounding women. Mustang was then relegated to utensil-polishing duties (as a man, the women tittered, and, of course, the famed Flame Alchemist, all the cooking he was good for were flambés, which were completely inappropriate for a lunch-time party such as this), and was directed to the kitchen.

The kitchen wasn't as crowded, and was blessedly free of females – with the exception of the usual hustle and bustle in and out of the place, fetching napkins, dumping used glasses in the sink, and so on and so forth. Action seemed to flow around the kitchen, however, and less through it – it was never a good idea to have a steady flow of traffic through a place with hot ovens and/or sharp utensils in use.

From what he could tell, there were two people on cooking duty, a pair of children – a pair of strikingly familiar children. The only reason Roy didn't point and gasp immediately upon espying them was because they were facing away from him, working at the stove, and so he couldn't see their faces. They also weren't soaking wet. All of these factors delayed recognition for a few brief moments. In addition, he was a military officer: such displays were frowned upon.

The shorter one, a blond, was sitting on a tall stool about the height of the counter, and was stirring what looked to be soup in a large cauldron-like pot on the stove, occasionally adding various spices and vegetables from a series of plates beside him. The other had eschewed a stool and was leaning against the counter, carefully making dozens of small, elegant finger sandwiches: stereotypical lunch food for such functions.

"Oi, Al, pass me that wooden ladle, would you?" called the blond at the stove.

"Why can't you get it yourself?" asked the other, irritated. But even as he said this he was handing the ladle over. "You're such a bother, Nii-san."

"You know it, Al!" The sitting person turned his head and stuck out his tongue playfully at the other. The aforementioned ladle-passer, too, turned and stuck out his tongue as well.

That being done, they both cheerfully turned back to their respective tasks.

Now, Roy had known that he'd meet the authors of the Book of Truth eventually. He had connections, after all; his best friend's wife and, indeed, his best friend himself were acquaintances of them. Maes, of course, as head of the State Investigations Department, would see that Roy, as a State Alchemist extremely interested in the book, would want to meet the authors (with enough hinting), and would hopefully… eventually… set up a meeting for him. Oh, Maes would tease him about it – finally he could do something related to alchemy that Roy couldn't – but he'd likely do it.

Roy had imagined his first meeting with them: perhaps at a trendy café in Central, or even at his impressive State Alchemist office. He would serve them some wine – or whisky, even – to be polite (because they couldn't be as young as Maes said they were – the subject matter of the book was too advanced, the code too intricate, for it to have been written by _children_, honestly, how gullible did Maes think he was?). And then they could "talk shop", as they said. It would be a nice intellectual discussion regarding complex circles, particle theory, and the like. They would be a pair of people to challenge his alchemical intellect for the first time since he took the State Alchemist entrance exam.

And here they were: cooking. At a baby shower. The one sitting at the stove had a streak of sauce on his cheek.

Roy felt his dreams shatter – just a little bit. But he was a man, damn it, and quickly pulled himself together.

"Are you –" he began, then stopped. He knew that they had written the Book of Truth, but what could he ask? Just demand, "Did you write the book I've been obsessing about for months?!" No, that would be rude. And would make any attempts at starting up a civilized conversation unlikely, at least.

But it was too late: he had said something. They had both turned to stare at him curiously. The blond was the first to recognize him. He pointed a finger of his right hand at him.

"You – you're that military guy, aren't you?" He said, as if remembering as he spoke.

"Ah, yes?" Roy cursed, internally. State Alchemists shouldn't phrase statements as questions. He must be assertive!

The other, at least, was more polite (only children pointed fingers at people). "Thank you very much, again, sir for the directions." He bobbed a short bow. "My name is Alphonse Elric, and this is my older brother –"

"Edward." Said older brother provided as he stood up from his stool.

Now, Mustang knew what to say; introductions were automatic. "Roy Mustang – the Flame Alchemist."

"You're a state alchemist?" Alphonse's eyes lit up, taking a step closer, and simultaneously reaching for his cane to steady himself. "That's amazing! I've always wondered –"

"What's so amazing?" Edward interrupted with a scowl. "He's just a dog of the military. I can't think of any reason why I'd want to become a human weapon."

"Nii-san! Stop being rude!" Alphonse snapped, then quickly turned to give Roy an almost rueful smile. "Sorry, sir. If I may ask, what are you doing here?"

This, Roy knew how to answer. "Maes is an old friend of mine, and I've known Gracia almost as long as he has."

Nothing more could really be said, for the moment.

"So are you going to make yourself useful, or what?" Edward asked as he returned to his place by the stove.

Roy frowned. So rude! Apparently Edward's brother agreed because before Alphonse went back to his sandwich making, he made a detour to deliver a swift smack to the back of Edward's head. The boy rubbed the back of his head with his left hand and scowled, but didn't retaliate.

Yes, Roy's dreams were definitely and quite thoroughly shattered.

Dutifully, though, he busied himself with his assigned task, menial as it was to simply polish silverware.

Luckily for him, Alphonse was too polite to ignore both people in the room for any length of time, and so attempted to engage in conversation as the three worked.

"So, Mr. Mustang, what kind of alchemy do you specialize in?" The boy asked, genuinely curious.

"Well," Roy replied, pausing dramatically, "I have made a name for myself with atmospheric transmutations."

"Atmospheric? As in, what, altering gas combinations in mines so that they're no longer toxic? Stuff like that?" The older brother asked, almost absently, as he stirred.

"No, no. I create flames." Roy corrected him.

"Eh? What use is that?" Edward turned to look at him.

Roy gave him a look. "I'm military."

"Ah." Edward turned back to the stove, disapproval radiating from his figure.

Alphonse sighed. "Don't worry about Nii-san, Mr. Mustang. He's a hypocrite. He likes flashy transmutations just as much as anybody."

"Hey-!" Edward protested.

"Yes, you should have seen some of the statues he would make! Our teacher always tried to pound practicality and frugality into our heads, but Nii-san hardly ever listens." From Alphonse's smile, Roy could tell that the boy was just trying to rile the other boy up.

The Flame alchemist did feel a bit put out that his science was apparently labeled "flashy" and dismissed by these two alchemists.

"Yeah, Al, but I can still build bridges and fix things and stuff - even if I make them more artistic than before. What good's fire? I mean, it's not even all that refined an art. Is it true that you guys deliberately make your arrays inefficient to make the transmutation hotter?"

"What do you mean?" Roy asked, looking up from his polishing.

Edward looked pensive as he stirred the stew and spoke. "Yeah, like, that's why the light from fire transmutations is red. For true efficiency, an alchemist should aim for white, but most can only manage yellow. Some people, like us, get blue, and there are green variants for use in botany – you know, less heat, more life, so as to not kill the plants."

"Wait- you get _blue_ light?" Roy had never heard of such a thing. He had only ever witnessed yellow and red-tinged transmutations.

Edward gave him a _look_, "What, you've never even achieved blue light? Aren't you a state alchemist?" He seemed as if he was about to make another disparaging remark but was interrupted before he could voice anything.

"Nii-san! Don't be rude!" Even as Alphonse said this, Roy could tell that the boy agreed with what his brother was saying, and was just trying to be polite and spare Roy's feelings. Of course; the boys had written a whole book together, and had apparently been taught by the same teacher. They were bound to have similar opinions, then, professionally. "I'm sure that Mr. Mustang had a different focus in his studies. You need an inefficient array to make heat, you know. Just because our teacher had us focus on energy-saving transmutations doesn't mean that it's in everyone's knowledge base." The younger brother looked towards Roy once more and apologized earnestly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Mustang. I'm sure that you're very good in your field. Please ignore my brother's comments." He then gave another apologetic bow.

But something still had to be addressed. "You said that your transmutations produced… _blue_ light?" He asked, to be absolutely clear.

"Yes. And what of it?" Edward drawled.

Without breaking his gaze – Edward had the strangest eye colour; he hadn't seen gold irises in _ages –_ Mustang picked up a plate beside him and casually held it over the ground. He let it go, sending it smashing to the floor, where it lay in several pieces.

"Oops. Well, isn't it lucky that we have several alchemists in the room?" Roy spoke with obvious challenge.

Edward's inner alchemist took up the call. He didn't even get angry. Alphonse just rolled his eyes and went back to cutting up sandwiches. "Don't show off too much, Nii-san."

At these words, Edward, too, rolled his eyes, then paused, eyes calculating. He then began to reach for his pocket, presumably for chalk. After a moment of patting down his pockets, he came up empty. The blond turned his gaze beseechingly to Al. "Hey, Al-"

"Yes, Nii-san?"

"Er, do you have any chalk on you?" Edward asked, almost sheepishly.

"You know that I don't, Nii-san." _What kind of alchemist didn't carry chalk on them? _Roy wondered. "You could just-" Whatever Alphonse had been about to say was met by a shaking of the head from Edward, and a 'look' that Roy didn't think he was supposed to see. Alphonse sighed. "Why don't you just use some of that soup, then? Honestly, Nii-san, you call yourself an alchemist. Be innovative!"

At that, Edward ladled out a portion of creamy tomato soup into a cup. Dipping one gloved finger in the still steaming liquid, Edward limped over to kneel before the broken dish. He quickly sketched out a transmutation circle on the kitchen title. Admittedly, chalk wouldn't have likely worked very well on such a slippery surface.

Roy was impressed at the speed that the boy drew the circle with. Apparently his expression gave him away, because the blond smirked and said, "Our teacher made us do speed drills. You can't spend fifteen minutes drawing a perfect circle in a fight." Roy nodded. There had been a similar training regime for the state alchemists to prepare for Ishval.

Without further ado, Edward framed his gloved hands around the circle drawn in red soup and _concentrated_. It took less than a second for the makeshift array to light up. The two boys had been right: it wasn't yellow, but a serene shade of blue. The very _air_ felt different than the charged atmosphere one normally got with transmutations. Was that a side effect of the blue light? Apparently blue was more efficient, so did that therefore mean that less energy was flowing…?

Apparently, Roy Mustang's dreams weren't so shattered after all. He had already learned something incredibly interesting within ten minutes of meeting the authors of the Book of Truth!

Within seconds, the blue light died down. It hadn't remained unnoticed, though. "Don't transmute things in the house!" Maes roared from the other room. The women tittered.

But Roy Mustang smiled. These boys were… intriguing. Wonderfully so.

Yes: he would definitely have to keep an eye on them… if only so that he could learn their secrets for himself. These were just the sorts of things a future furher had to be aware of, after all...

**Act Seven: End**


End file.
